Raveno Hoviir didn’t suffer incompetence. He didn’t suffer
anything without consequence, a policy his crew was testing time and again
lately and without any perceivable sign of becoming more competent. His
reputation, carefully cultivated over a long and brutal career, was usually
incentive enough to inspire obedience. He couldn’t let that reputation crack,
not for anything: not for his morals as he punished decent soldiers for
mistakes that didn’t warrant such severity; not for his soul as he led
abominable missions to maintain alliances with Bazail, Iroan, and Fray; not for
his body as he’d gone to unmatched extremes to prove his loyalty to Cilvril s’Hvri Josairo.
He played the villain in service to his people, a role as
necessary as it was revolting.
During Josairo’s early reign as Cilvril s’Hvri, the killing
hand of Havar, he’d been the strength and armor their planet had needed to
survive what historians now referred to as the War of Wrath’s Will. After
bolstering their military forces and gaining the autonomy to wield them as he
deemed necessary, Josairo achieved what four previous Cilvrili s’Hvri had died
failing to accomplish: He’d secured Havar’s independence from her sister
planet, Haven, and ended years of oppression and tyranny.
Or so the historians claimed and the schools taught. Based
on Raveno’s first-hand experience, he often wondered if Josairo hadn’t simply
murdered historians until he’d found one willing rewrite the war to his liking.
Nevertheless, however he’d managed to wrest unilateral
control of their military and judicial systems, Josairo’s unmatched combat
skills ensured he kept it, even as he modified their fleet of luxury
destination ships into prison transport vessels. Even as he ordered the
abduction and trafficking of innocent, sentient people. Even as the peace and
prosperity he’d supposedly achieved following their victory against Haven
soured into fear-filled obedience. In earning their independence, the havari
had traded a foreign tyrant for a domestic one, and every warrior brave enough
to challenge Josairo to a frisaes and legally end his rule had thus far lost.
When Raveno ended his rule, it wouldn’t be legal. But he
would win.
Until then, the weight of Raveno’s sins were his to bear or
be crushed by. Which made confronting the horrific results of his own
undercover operation insufferable, knowing his reputation would demand he
deliver swift and harsh punishment when faced with his crew’s greatest
incompetence to date: a human outside her room and tampering with
the equipment in their control room, of all places.
Dellao and Tironan were asleep in their seats, and the
woman, cry mercy, the woman was fierce as only a mother could be, all snapping
eyes and straining muscles. Some people withered from the poison of oppression,
but not her. She seemed fueled by it. She gritted her square teeth with
determination. Her soft cheeks flushed a deep crimson from her efforts, and her scent—Raveno sealed shut his
nostrils, cutting short that disturbing thought before it could fully form.
“Who do you work for?” Thev sa shek, a traitor on
board Sa Vivsheth was the last thing he needed.
Her jaw fell slack. “Y-y-you speak English?”
“Obviously.” His English was rusty and not quite as good as
his Mandarin, but still good enough for interrogation. “Who sent you?”
“I think we got off on the wrong foot.” She licked her
lips, and deep indents on the corners of her mouth dipped into her
cheeks. “My name is Kinsley Morales, but my
friends call me Switch.”
He stared at her a moment. Had she just introduced herself?
Didn’t she realize she was being interrogated? To death, if she didn’t cooperate.
Please, just cooperate.
“My mother named me after my paternal grandmother. An
‘apology’ name, I always said, because she’d named my sister in honor of her mother, which caused quite a stir on
my father’s side of the family. But everyone’s ruffled feathers settled after
she named me. The only time my presence had settled anyone’s feathers.” She ran
out of air and inhaled a deep, trembling breath. “What’s your name?”
Ah, he might have believed her composure if not for that
tremble. She knew her predicament precisely and was attempting to save herself
by appealing to his compassion.
The man he’d become to overthrow Josairo couldn’t afford
compassion. “Did my brother recruit you with the promise of freedom? What are
your orders?”
The woman flinched. A pained whine escaped her clenched
teeth.
Svik, was
he hurting her? Raveno loosened his hold, just in case. It might come to that,
but not now and certainly not by mistake.
Yet, even beaten down, in pain, and defeated, the gleam of
calculation sharpened the woman’s gaze.
Strong in mind if not in body, he thought warily, knowing the terrible efforts it took
to break the strong of will. His own physical wound had long since healed, but
the muscles of his residual limb often pained him as if his left calf still
remained, twisted foot and all.
“Must I repeat the question?” he asked. If not Tironan, someone on board had released her.
The furry tuft above her right eye lifted. “How should I
know if I know your brother if I don’t even know you?”
Ha! Fine. He spoke his full name and rank for her in
traditional Hvrsil, just for the pleasure of matching her obstinacy with his.
“I…I’m not sure I can pronounce that,” she admitted.
“Considering the deficiencies in the form and function of
your tongue, I expect not.”
She narrowed her eyes, clearly unsure if she should be
insulted. “Do you have a nickname too? Something less, er, taxing on the vocal
cords?”
“No.”
“What do your friends call you?” she tried.
“I have no friends.”
“Something I can call you while I beg for mercy, then,” she
snapped.
A laugh overtook him at that, as swift, unwanted, and
jarring as a seizure. Oh, this woman was a little firework: all sparks and
fierce light wedging lethally beneath his scales.
“When you beg for mercy, you may call me by the modern
Haveo version of my name,” he relented. “Raveno Hoviir.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Raveno Hoviir.”
He was certain it wasn’t.
When the lorienok
abducted Delaney—after she’d finally accepted that she wasn’t dreaming, in a coma,
having a mental breakdown, or in hell—she’d given them a fake name: Jane Smith.
Not an exceptionally creative or unique pseudonym by any stretch of the imagination,
but having come to grips with the fact that she’d been literally abducted by aliens,
her imagination was stretched dangerously thin. Intergalactic kidnapping wasn’t
a chronic illness, but for a time—a longer time than she was comfortable admitting
to now—wasting away had seemed a preferable fate.
She didn’t
accomplish much by hiding her identity. She didn’t have any blood relatives to protect,
a criminal record to hide, or a trust fund to safeguard. Delaney Rose McCormick
had about as much value associated with her name as did the fictional Jane Smith
and left nearly as small a void on Earth. But all Delaney had in those early days
directly following her abduction was her name and the hope that everything—the abduction,
the tests, the training—was just a big mistake. Which, as it turned out, it was.
Her abduction had been the biggest technological mistake in lorienok history, but
that didn’t change her circumstances. Days turned to weeks turned to months turned
to the abandonment of tracking time. Hope died. She had nothing to her name, but
her name, at least, was her own, and she would keep it for herself.
By the time
her domestication specialist, Keil Kore’Weidnar, discovered Delaney’s capacity to
learn and taught her Lori, his native language, the issue of her name had become
moot. He’d already renamed her Reshna,
a spiral-shaped handheld tool used to drill into ice. He’d shown her a hologram
of it, pointing to the spiral and then to the wild frizz of her unconditioned curls.
They had a similar-looking tool on Earth, but they used it to open wine bottles.
He’d named her “corkscrew” for her crazy hair.
She’d been
called worse names in high school.
She couldn’t
say she’d lived in worse places, though. Most of her foster families, with the exception
of the Todd household, had been decent people who’d given her clothes, a bed under
a roof, and regular meals. Besides clothes, those basic necessities were still being
met, so a little gratitude was probably in order. But only just a little, because
she also had a cage. And a collar. And if she’d just translated the words and growls
of the pet store manager correctly, she had a new owner.
Like most
lor, her owner had thick, curved ram horns
jutting from his head, and like all lorienok regardless of gender, he was covered
head to toe in brown fur. Sasquatch did exist after all; he just wasn’t native to
Earth. He was roughly the same size and shape as a human bodybuilder, and in addition
to the horns, his nose and mouth protruded slightly into a blunt muzzle, two rows
of sharp predator teeth filled his overly large mouth, and pointy bearlike claws
tipped each finger and likely each toe on his boot-shod feet.
Unlike most,
this male wore his hair long. His locks were tied back from his face in a messy
bun with a forest-green elastic band. His beard was also long and came to a point
at the end, hanging a few inches below his chin. But his eyes were his most striking
feature, assuming that one had already become accustomed to the ram horns, claws,
abundance of muscle, and close-cropped body fur. His left eye was the same doe brown
common to all lorienok—a smidge rounder and larger than human eyes, like calf eyes
with those thick lashes and soul-deep stare—but his other eye was ice blue. A thick
scar bisected his right brow, eyelid, and upper cheek, slicing directly over that
unique, penetrating gaze.
His bearing
was regal and confident, the sharp cut of his jawline proud, but his eyes betrayed
him. He was sad—horribly sad—and he glowered at Delaney through the wire door of
her cage like he was the Greek king Sisyphus and she his boulder, resigning himself
to an eternity of labor over an impossible, futile undertaking.
Or maybe Delaney
was just projecting because she couldn’t imagine anything more impossible and futile
than her current existence. I am not a pet!
she wanted to yell. But after witnessing Keil’s cold-blooded murder, she knew
to keep her mouth firmly shut. If anyone suspected her more intelligent than a golden
retriever, her death would be next.
Accomplishing
impossible feats while enduring debilitating injury and sensory deprivation were
challenges both expected and anticipated by the young cadets training to enter the
combat and strategic intelligence division of the Federation. Qualifying exams were
brutal. Training was rigorous. But for the few who didn’t fail, drop out, or obtain
an infirmary discharge, the rewards were astronomical. Torek Lore’Onik Weidnar Kenzo
Lesh’Aerai Renaar had certainly reaped those rewards many times over, as evidenced
by the four property titles bestowed to his name. He’d never been one to flinch
when facing a challenge, but this order—the court-mandated appointment of an animal
companion to “facilitate mental recovery”—was the challenge that finally made him
flinch.
Torek stared
at the human—at the beautiful, riotous hair that sprang like coils from its head
and would obviously need continual cleaning and grooming, at its tiny stature and
lean form that probably couldn’t lift its own weight, at the lovely gray eyes and
smooth, bare skin that would need layers upon layers of protective coverings to
keep it warm—and he seriously considered the merits of simply retiring from the
Federation.
No one would
blame him after what had happened. He could return to his home in Aerai and resume
the quiet, peaceful, unappreciated toil of plant cultivation he’d abandoned so many
seasons ago along with his dreams of filling that home with a family.
The store
manager hefted a bound book from the counter and plopped it into Torek’s unwilling
arms.
“What’s this?”
A tingle of cold dread crept across the back of Torek’s neck.
“Why, it’s
your owner’s manual, of course.”
“Of course.”
The Federation’s policies and procedures manual was the thickest book Torek had
ever had the displeasure of memorizing, and it wasn’t even half the size of this
tome.
“You’ll be
the envy of all Lorien. The first to purchase a human, our newest species. She’s
the pilot for her breed, of course, but her domestication is progressing fabulously.
They dispatched a harvester while she was still in transit, so until the next shipment
arrives, she’s the only human we’ll have for a while yet, six kair at the least. You must be thrilled.”
As Torek flipped
through a few of the manual’s pages and skimmed the table of contents, the tingle
of dread that had started at his neck devoured the rest of his body and intensified
to nausea. An entire chapter was dedicated to heating and insulating the human’s
living quarters. If her rooms dipped below a specific temperature—Torek brought
the book closer and squinted, but no, his eyes didn’t deceive him—and the human
didn’t have tailored, fur-lined coverings to retain heat, she would sicken and die.
If he didn’t provide her with private sleeping quarters, she would become lethargic
and depressed, then sicken and die. If he didn’t feed her three meals a day, complete
with a cooked protein, vegetables, and some grain, she would sicken and die. She
was even allergic to ukok, a simple seasoning.
If consumed, her throat would swell, cutting off her air supply, and she would immediately
die.
He would kill
her.
Not intentionally,
of course, but despite the wild popularity of owning foreign domesticated animals,
he’d never even owned a zeprak let alone
something as exotic, delicate, and temperamental as this human. She wouldn’t survive
a week in his care.
His throat
tightened. His breath shortened. His chest ached, and suddenly, black starbursts
shadowed his vision.
Not now. Not in public. Not again.
The excerpt was great.
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